


The Weakness in Me

by ladyvivien



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Angst, Butch/Femme, Divorce, F/F, Kate Stewart is a power dyke pass it on, Masturbation, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Suits, binding, killer heels, mention of gardening, predatory femme and awkward butch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Science leads, history repeats itself. A pretty girl hands you a test tube and suddenly you're working late and haven't seen your children in weeks. Anyone who says she's isn't her father's daughter just hasn't read the right files.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weakness in Me

There's nothing Kate Stewart likes better than getting dressed up to the nines and seducing a pretty, stuttering butch. 

 

Breath coming in staccato bursts as her perfume catches in their throats, nipples pebbled hard beneath crisp shirts and binders, boy shorts damp beneath heavy wool trousers.  Trembling hands that cup her face or her arse, eager mouths with just the right amount of tongue and teeth and occasionally the pressure of something hard between their legs. The corridors of power are littered with secluded rooms for just this purpose, or one like it, and she won't deny she gets a kick out of urging a woman's head between her legs as she's spread out on the kind of desk where treaties are signed. She likes to imagine men in their pinstriped suits coming in the next morning to find a whiff of Chanel Number 5 and the combined arousal of two women lingering in the air while she's hidden away in the Tower of London, protecting them from threats they can't even comprehend. 

 

It's a private enjoyment, a victory she can't include in any of her reports, but there's something about the conquest that gives her the same rush of endorphins. She's always been strict about keeping business and pleasure separate, but when work takes over and pleasure is a solitary activity, she allows herself to relax the rules a little. 

 

It's probably a good thing that Osgood turns down every party invitation she receives. Kate's self-control is only so good, she's not sure it can withstand champagne and dim lighting. She wants to drag her into a dark corner and kiss her hard on the mouth, breathe _Maybe it's just the champagne, but I've been thinking about this all night_ as she nuzzles the girl's neck, slide a hand underneath a starched tuxedo shirt and hear her gasp as Kate pinches a nipple through her bra. Maybe Osgood binds, maybe Kate will have to unwrap bandages slowly like a Christmas present, discovering soft flesh beneath constricting fabric. She's picked out the dress she'd wear in her mind, something black and slinky that clings to every curve, that dips below the waist at the back exposing skin bare and waiting for short nails to be raked down it. Shiny patent pointed Louboutins, all glossy black leather and sinful red sole that draw attention to her legs, legs that long to be curved around the other woman's waist as three fingers pump in and out of her cunt at the precise angle she needs to get off. 

 

God help her the day Osgood decides she wants a social life.

 

Her clit is stiff and aching, much like the rest of her muscles but so much more pleasurable, and she skims the slick wet flesh with a fingertip, gasping. She refuses to feel guilty. It's just a harmless fantasy - even if she wanted to act on it, she couldn't. The same budget cuts that had her leaving the office past 11pm on a Friday night with the beginnings of a migraine don't allow for catering more exotic than sparkling water and M&S flapjacks these days.  Still it doesn't stop her imagining heels so high she towers above Osgood, pinning her against the wall as she pressed the other woman's trembling hand against her dripping bare cunt, showing her just how fucking much she _wants_ this. 

 

It could be all in her head, the sad delusions of a middle aged divorcée whose only successful relationship is with the _Phalaenopsis Amabilis_ she's been tending in her greenhouse on her rare days off, but somehow, Kate doesn't think so. She's been that shy, blushing girl, tripping over her tongue every time a prefect or a professor or a woman in a bar looked at her. She knows she's Osgood's boss, knows that this is wrong on so many levels, that she'd be taking advantage of a younger woman who worships the ground she walks on, but that's the point. Osgood needs her approval like she needs oxygen, all wide eyes and hopeful expression, glowing a little more every time Kate smiles at her. It could be a simple case of hero worship, a schoolgirl crush like the ones she was always told she'd grow out of, but Kate had an absent father and has a high powered job - she knows a praise kink when she sees one. 

 

As she eases two fingers inside herself, she murmurs words in the dark that she has to swallow during the day. _So good, so clever. My brilliant girl, that's it. Can you take a little more for me? Of course you can. There, doesn't that feel good? You've been such a good girl, let me take care of you._ Her whimpers are loud in the empty room, but that's the advantage of living alone, she can be as loud as she wants. She works herself up to the first orgasm quickly, images of a flustered Osgood trembling with the force of her own climax sending her over the edge like a rocket. Orgasm denial is for people who don't understand that the world could literally end at any second. If Kate's lucky, she'll get prior warning. If not, she hopes she goes out with a bang.

 

Science leads, history repeats itself. A pretty girl hands you a test tube and suddenly you're working late and haven't seen your children in weeks. Anyone who says she's isn't her father's daughter just hasn't read the right files. Still, Osgood is not the reason her marriage failed. There were a whole list of reasons, half of them classified, but in amongst the regret and the fighting and the custody battles and Anna having made off with Kate's favourite trowel and lying about it is a certain sense of relief that she no longer has to feel guilty about wanting someone else. And maybe now the dust has settled, now the litany of _You should have made this work/You're supposed to be an example/Mum was right, you're just like Dad_ has quietened down in her mind (and god, it took the best part of forty years and a divorce to forgive him, but she gets it, she really does, the way this job consumes you), maybe now she can have what she wants. Who she wants, even if that is a subordinate fifteen years her junior. Or maybe she'll embarrass both of them and find herself alone again, with menopause on the horizon, getting closer every month. That shouldn't feel like a death sentence for her sexual desire, but she's no more immune to scare stories from glossy magazines in therapists' waiting rooms than the next woman, and she has multiple degrees in xenobiology to torment herself with in the wee small hours. 

 

This is not relaxing. 

 

She licks her fingers, spreads her labia and tries to immerse herself back in the fantasy.

 

She thinks Osgood wears practical underwear, nothing so fancy it can be termed lingerie, but she imagines scraps of silk and lace beneath the jumpers and jeans anyway. Imagines taking her to a discreet little boutique and getting her kitted out, enjoying her blushes and pulling her into a changing room, muffling her screams with one hand as the other fucks her relentlessly. Knowing that beneath her lab coat the girl is wearing knickers that cost more than a month's salary and barely cover anything, and she's doing it on Kate's orders.  Cupping the girl's cunt through the fabric, ghosting her thumb over her clit and calling her a good girl to be so ready for her mistress...

 

  
_Fuck_. Well, that's not going to work anymore.  

 

It's not the first time that Missy has intruded on Kate's fantasies, which is annoying on multiple levels - not least that she makes it a policy not to find psychopathic aliens intent on destroying Earth attractive. But the last thing she needs to do is to trigger Osgood's PTSD, even in a fantasy, and Kate has a very firm rule about not exposing her lovers to traumatic flashbacks. She's considerate that way.

 

Fine. Take a gulp of water, rearrange the pillows, check the phone because there's nothing like an impending apocalypse to throw off a girl's game, and focus on the task at hand. 

 

Osgood, in her office late at night. Everyone else has gone home, it's just the two of them and some schematics spread out on her desk. Kate leans over, her hand on Osgood's back, pretending she doesn't notice the sharp intake of breath. Running her finger down a line and asking a question, knowing the other woman isn't paying attention to her words, just the way her fingers look, imagining them inside of her. Blushing, when Kate raises an eyebrow questioningly.

 

So natural to brush soft lips against soft lips, never once breaking eye contact. Whispering _I know what you want_ , hands moving over the tweed waistcoat with buttons she can undo slowly, teasingly. Osgood trying to return the favour and failing because her hands are trembling so hard, embarrassed because if she knew the boss was going to seduce her, she might have dressed up more, not a bra that doesn't match white cotton briefs that are already soaked through. 

 

It's imagining that flicker of humiliation that gets her off and always leaves her feeling slightly grimy afterwards, the idea that she can make someone so embarrassed they want the ground to swallow them up, and then banish the feeling with just the slightest caress, the smallest smile to reassure. Imagine Osgood afterwards, awkward and shy, more vulnerable in front of her commander than she's ever been. Pulling her close, skin on skin, her own body still damp and trembling, her mouth murmuring sweet nonsense into thick, dark hair.

 

She could imagine that, but she won't. That's not what this is about. 

 

There hasn't been an apocalypse in weeks, she has a stack of paperwork, the boys are away at school and her mind just has time to wander, that's all. And if it wanders towards a certain scientist, that doesn't mean anything. It's just her libido finally waking up. She even caught herself thinking about the Doctor the other day, which she makes a point of not doing ever since he regenerated and her therapist started muttering about daddy issues. She maintains that the mindwipe going off with twenty minutes of the session left to go was an accident. Her foot slipped, and it isn't her fault that someone in the next room was pouring coffee, forgot what they were doing and ended up with third degree burns. 

 

All of which is to say that having less than pure thoughts about one's significantly younger co-worker is not the worst thing she could do. It's not even in the top ten of the worst things she's actually done. And it isn't though she wants a trophy that reads 'World's Best Ex-Wife' for not having an affair, but she deserves some credit for the fact that she hasn't been courtmartialed, yelled at by the Prime Minister or sent to a sexual harassment workshop after snapping and pouncing on the girl after a particularly trying alien invasion.

 

She wonders if Osgood has any toys, something to fuck Kate with in her office chair, pencil skirt hiked high above her waist, blouse open and bra half off, the other woman's mouth on her tits as she whispers shyly, _Is this alright, ma'am? Is this what you want?_ Maybe she's designed something herself, all those hours tinkering away in her lab working on something to make Kate come, make her proud.

 

When she comes it isn't a gentle orgasm, all pulsing and floating and lovely, it's sharp spikes of jagged pleasure as her mind races ahead. The images in her mind as she spasms around her own fingers are not of fucking but of afterwards, giggling and cuddling and fighting for the duvet. It's all so sweet and domestic she could vomit. But still, it's just a fantasy, something to pass the time between coming home from work and leaving for work that isn't a bottle of wine and getting depressed over the latest MoD reports. Other people have relationships, she has UNIT. 

 

Science leads, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Despite what Kate thinks, binding should happen with a proper binder, not bandages. Maybe Osgood can show her sometime?


End file.
